


Highlights

by kedgeree



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Meet-Cute, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 18:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12658689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: Five times Enjolras was self-conscious about his hair and one time he wasn't.





	Highlights

**Author's Note:**

> My first Les Mis fic and my first 5+1 fic!

1.

"Woah. Hello there, Goldilocks."

Enjolras sighs. Joly had wanted to try a new place, and the Corinth actually seems pretty nice. Except for this beer-waver. There's always one.

"Not interested."

"I didn't actually offer anything. But now that you mention it, I think we might be…" Beer-waver winks at him. "Just right."

Enjolras breathes out through his nose and sets his shoulders.

"Uh oh," says Bossuet.

Jehan leans against the bar and cups his chin in his hand.

"While your assessment of our compatibility, based entirely on my hair, might meet your own undiscriminating standards, let me assure you that you would be far better off attempting to forge a 'relationship' with someone whose criteria for connection are as meaningless and shallow as your own. I wish you luck in your endeavor of seeking an experience as empty as that bottle in your hand. It will not be with me."

This is when they usually go away, embarrassed or offended or often just confused, but the guy isn't going. In fact, he looks absolutely delighted by Enjolras's rejection. The glassy expression has been wiped away by a wide grin, his eyes suddenly bright and intense.

"I cannot fault your conclusion, sir," he declares grandly. He looks Enjolras up and down. "You are not the first to reach it. I suspect you will not be the last. But I am a man of the moment, and during the course of these past moments, this most enlightening interlude, I've formed a new assessment of which I feel keenly you ought be informed. While I cannot rescind my appreciation of the aforementioned glorious golden tresses, I now perceive that they are but the emblem of a radiance within, for how could such righteousness be contained? And yet the avenging angel's guise--the face--cannot conceal the facets of a being who, though he may fly, still walks the earth. A friend—" He sweeps a hand at Joly, Bossuet, and Jehan. "An idealist." He taps one of the equality pins on the strap of Enjolras's messenger bag. "And a probably unintentionally endearing fucker wearing some floppy-ass rainbow shoelaces." He grins down at Enjolras's Keds. "And all this I divine, as my subject is divine, at the mere dawn of acquaintance. Imagine what the full light of day may bring." He glances quickly to the side, gestures at Joly's just-uncapped beer bottle and asks, "May I?"

"Um…sure?"

"Farewell, Goldilocks. Hello, _Apollo_." He raises the bottle in toast. "To a _full_ experience."

"Holy shit," says Bossuet.

"Wow," says Joly.

"I like him," says Jehan.

  


2.

Enjolras frowns at his reflection.

He's tried parting it on the left and the right and in sort of a zig-zag across his head. Straight down the middle definitely didn't work. Maybe…he's seen that Thor actor guy do this thing where it's all sort of pushed over and—

"Want to try my hot rollers next?"

Enjolras jerks away from the mirror. His hair brush clatters onto the bathroom tile.

Courfeyrac is behind him, leaning against the door jamb and leering. "Are we having a special night?"

"No. Just. The rally. I'm doing the introduction."

"So you're primping for...Mayor Mabeuf?"

"I'm not… _primping_ …it's a serious event. I'm serious. I need to present myself seriously." Enjolras viciously finger-combs his hair to the left again. "Not like some sort of _dandelion_."

"Okay. That's new. Since when are you a 'dandelion'?"

"Since—" Enjolras scowls. "Nothing."

"Enjolras." Courfeyrac rubs his nose. "Who said you look like a dandelion?"

Enjolras hisses frustration as half his curls flop back to the right. He thinks Courfeyrac is laughing behind his hand. "Nobody," he mutters.

"Hm," says Courfeyrac.

  


3.

His neck feels too bare.

"The path may end, forge another, day will come…"

He'd normally put in some kind of attention-getting gesture in that beat, throw back his hair, but…

"And close on finding a way? Are you sure it's okay?"

Enjolras scans his notes one last time, rubbing his hand over his head. His shorn hair feels spiky. Like it's still burnt.

"Hell, yes!" Bahorel slaps the tabletop with his non-splinted hand. "Man, I got fucking chills at that part about thunderbolts."

Jehan nods enthusiastically, hands clasped in front of his chest. He has a palm-sized band-aid on his forehead that's printed to look like a slice of toast, and Enjolras wishes he could understand the humor. He really does. Haha, people tried to set us on fire.

"Eloquent," murmurs Combeferre. The right lens of his glasses is still cracked. "It's a strong response, Enjolras."

It doesn't feel right, though. Nothing feels right since the violence at the march. The _peaceful_ protest. Everything feels wrong and raw.

"Good." Enjolras raises his chin and hopes he doesn't look as exposed as he feels. He's done this before. He can do this.

Grantaire's been slouched in his usual chair, silent, but as Enjolras moves toward the door, he pushes himself up. "Hey."

Enjolras sighs. "What do you want?"

Grantaire glances over at the others, like he's making sure no one's listening. It's just the two of them by the door, but Grantaire moves in close to speak, softly. "You're not Samson."

" _What_?" Enjolras snaps. He's so not in the mood for Grantaire's shit right now and whatever joke Grantaire's setting up just—

"Your strength's here," Grantaire touches Enjolras's chest. He pulls Enjolras's hand gently away from where he's worrying his hair. "Not here. Okay?"

Enjolras's breath stutters.

Grantaire winks. "Go get 'em, fuzzy."

The applause when Enjolras finishes speaking is wild.

  


4.

"Feel my hair!" Grantaire demands.

"Why?"

"I tried that conditioner!" Grantaire drops his head and shakes his curls at Enjolras.

They do look...glossy. It couldn't really hurt, right? Enjolras sets his coffee down and reaches out tentatively to poke at one. It bounces.

"No, feel it." Grantaire pushes his own hands into his hair, fluffing it out. He has red paint on two of his knuckles. "It's so much softer."

"I never felt it before," Enjolras points out. He feels oddly glum as he says the words. "So I wouldn't know the difference."

"Oh."

Now Grantaire looks glum, too.

Enjolras digs a hand into Grantaire's hair. "Okay. It's soft."

"See?"

And it smells like honey. Enjolras clears his throat. He's not sure if he should move his hand at all, or… "That brand, um, has a leave-in one, too."

"Really? Do you use that?" Grantaire tips his face up inquiringly.

The movement makes Enjolras's fingers slide over the curve of Grantaire's head. He really can't help it. He swallows and nods.

Grantaire lifts his hand halfway. "Uh…can I…?"

Enjolras hesitates, then nods again. There's a painting on the wall of an elephant, and Enjolras stares at it as he tilts forward.

His hair brushes his cheek.

He shivers when Grantaire touches him, just above his temple, and then there's a rake of nails and just the softest tug, and—

The shop door bangs open. "Hey, guys—oh!" Combeferre almost skids to a halt. If he were a cartoon there would be little clouds behind his heels.

Enjolras and Grantaire jump three feet apart.

"So." Grantaire picks up Enjolras's coffee cup and knocks back a swallow. "Leave-in."

"Yeah. Leave-in," Enjolras says. It's a nice painting, the elephant.

  


5.

It isn't until he finally types the last sentence of the last paragraph of his article that Enjolras realizes he's been working alone in silence for probably quite a while.

They've shut the Musain down around him. The only light is from the silver-blue glow of his screen and the soft gold spots on empty tables from the dimmed overheads.

He closes his laptop and stretches, taking a deep breath and yawning as his eyes adjust.

Oh. He's not alone.

From the armchair by the window, Grantaire is watching him. His sketchpad is on his lap, tilted to catch the light from the street. The tip of his pencil is hovering just above the paper.

It seems to take him a moment, like he's coming out of a trance, to realize Enjolras is looking back at him. He starts, looks down at his sketchpad and then back up at Enjolras, guilty, caught out, and there's really no doubt as to the subject of Grantaire's work. Or the nature of it. Eyes wide, he opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but his head drops and he says nothing. Shoulders hunching, he moves to put away the sketchbook.

"No!"

Grantaire goes so abruptly still he seems to have frozen.

Enjolras stares.

Grantaire stares back.

Enjolras's heart is pounding.

Grantaire is kind of an asshole. Grantaire can be moody and sarcastic and far too lax. Grantaire can talk without breath for hours about nothing at all. Grantaire is irritating just for the fun of it. Grantaire is gentle. Grantaire is loyal. Grantaire is kind and creative and stronger than he thinks. Grantaire can look at someone like they're his whole world, like in spite of everything that's taught him not to trust and not to love, he still trusts and loves with all his heart.

With slow, deliberate movement, Enjolras shrugs off his jacket. Rolls up his shirt sleeves. The chills he has right now aren't from cold. He looks pointedly at Grantaire's sketchbook before he opens his laptop again.

Grantaire's inhale is audible.

With a trembling hand, Enjolras arranges the fall of his hair...behind his ear, over his shoulder. He turns his face toward the silvery light and starts typing, slowly, the articles of _The Rights of Man_. 

  


+1.

"Morning," Grantaire hums against Enjolras's shoulder.

Enjolras mumbles something and rolls over, blinking sleepily. "Morning," he says back. He gives Grantaire a sweet, shy smile.

Which is pretty funny, actually, considering last night's complete lack of shyness. Well, eventual lack of shyness. But then Grantaire's never known anyone who could commit themselves to an effort like Enjolras.

His thighs might not work for a couple days.

"Good?" he asks quietly.

"Mmhmm." Enjolras puts his hand on Grantaire's hip like it belongs there (it does) and snuffles a laugh. "You should see your hair."

"You should see yours, my fine friend."

Enjolras cocks an eyebrow. "Friend?"

"Well…my…um…" Love of his fucking life. Fine, Enjolras isn't the only one who can do the shy smile thing. Grantaire just hopes it looks as adorable when he does it.

It must be at least satisfactory because Enjolras laughs and squeezes his thigh.

The muffled sounds of dishes clanking and a cupboard door closing drift in from outside the bedroom.

"Courfeyrac's up," Enjolras murmurs. His gaze goes unfocused for a moment, distracted, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Is it really bad?"

"What?"

"My hair."

"Really, really bad," Grantaire assures him. "Like everyone who ever tried to learn crochet all deposited their failed attempts on your head."

Enjolras bites his lip. A wicked smile spreads over his face. His cheeks are all rosy and he looks proud. Like Grantaire messing him up has somehow made him proud.

Aching with happiness, Grantaire rolls in for the snuggle, but Enjolras is already rolling the other way, out of bed. "Nooo," Grantaire whines, "where are you going?"

"Be right back." Enjolras grins mischievously over his shoulder at Grantaire as he opens the bedroom door and exclaims, "Good morning!"

"Holy shit, what the fuck happened to your—"

"HI, COURF!" Grantaire shouts.

There's a loud crash.

"OH MY GOD!"

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you BakerStMel for your ever-wonderful beta magic!


End file.
